Twelve Months
by Musegaarid
Summary: A sequel to The Twelve Days of Christmas. Crowley is determined to get his chance to sleep with Gabriel. Slashyslash.
1. February

Author's note: The saga continues from Twelve Days... This will eventually be M rated Crowley/Gabriel. If you don't like that pairing, I don't want to hear it. You've been warned. Your lovely authors remain musegaarid and serpensortia.

* * *

It had been six weeks since Crowley spoke to Haniel about his little... bet with Aziraphale. Six weeks of trying to understand what the angel meant about love. Six weeks of abstinence after a fortnight with a different partner every day. Yet his attention kept drifting not to Jeliel or Dobiel or any of the others who'd acquiesced, pleasant memories though they were, but to Gabriel, who hadn't. Wings, Haniel had said. Gabriel was into wings.

Crowley couldn't remember what Gabriel's wings looked like. The image of the dark-haired archangel sitting on his bed, giving him unreadable looks while his shirt slid open and a sliver of pale abdomen appeared was crystal clear and never far from the demon's mind, but for the life of him Crowley couldn't remember what the angel's wings looked like. He pondered the matter for hours each day, pouring through art books and rejecting each fanciful design. It was becoming something of an obsession.

The days drifted past and the demon accomplished very little until he glanced one day at the calendar. February 13th. The day before Valentine's Day. Crowley was proud of Valentine's Day. Though it was nominally named for a saint, most people despised it. Single people wept for being alone and couples were forced into expensive rituals to prove their love for one another. More people hated it than Christmas, which was saying something. However something about it niggled at Crowley's mind. Something about Valentine's Day and romance and Gabriel...

He would seduce him, he decided. It was the only way to stop thinking about him and bloody well move on already. Besides, it couldn't be too difficult. The archangel had been, if not eager to go along with things six weeks prior, at least willing. All he should have to do is get Gabriel in the proper mood. Decision made, Crowley rang up a local florist. He could, of course, have miracled up two dozen red roses and have them sent to the angel's office, but an anonymous note attached to a collection of demonically produced flowers was more likely to end up in the rubbish bin, if not actually on fire, than on Gabriel's desk. It was classier, too, he felt, to actually pay for the things. Gabriel would see he was making an effort. So to speak.

The next morning, a van delivered the stunning bouquet to the offices of G. Engel, CPA. The card read _'Meet me at Assaggi in Notting Hill at 8pm. -An admirer.'_

Crowley was uncharacteristically early that evening; luckily, his table was ready and waiting, even at a quarter 'til. The restaurant was full of well-dressed romantic couples, he noted as he took the seat facing the door, ordered a bottle of the restaurant's most expensive wine, and waited to see if the archangel would arrive.

He was hoping that the vagueness of the message would be enough to draw Gabriel to Assaggi that night. Or the enormity of the flower arrangement. Or possibly both. His luck seemed to have run dry as far as celestial encounters, though, so he'd take what he could get, even if it was pure angelic curiosity.

Sure enough, the archangel arrived promptly on the hour. His eyes were almost immediately drawn to the demon, and Crowley hid a smile behind his glass of wine when Gabriel paused to speak to the maitre d'. The man politely led the angel over to where Crowley was waiting for him. Gabriel's expression hardened almost imperceptibly around the edges of his neutral mask as they were left alone.

"Crowley," he said, and though his tone was not angry, he made no move to take the seat across from the demon. "What is this about?"

The demon gestured to the chair opposite him and poured Gabriel a glass of wine. "Consider this a gesture of appreciation."

Gabriel's look was somewhat less than charitable. "Appreciation? For what, exactly?"

_Careful_, Crowley told himself. It was more difficult that he would have imagined previously, but the kind of blatant flirting he'd employed so successfully with Dobiel wasn't going to work here. "Your generous assistance the other day," he explained.

"My assistance?" Though the archangel's expression didn't change, Gabriel did take his seat, accepting the glass of wine. "Do explain, demon."

Internally gloating that he'd gotten the angel to at least sit down, Crowley took another sip of his drink, feeling its tingling warmth spread throughout his chest. He smiled. "Without your patient tutoring, it may have been much longer before I learned what I needed to about love."

Gabriel made a knowing noise as he took his first sip of wine. "You did finally make it back to Haniel, then, did you?" He asked not with an air of interest, but in the dry manner of someone who had never really expected to have this conversation at all and had little investment in its outcome.

"I learned about his little game, yes," replied the demon, equally arid. "But he seemed to be under the impression that a number of you only participated out of a sense of duty."

"Whereas you were convinced the entire Host simply jumped at the chance to bend over for you?"

Crowley grinned. "No one seemed to object too strongly to the arduous task."

The angel's brow arched in perfect form, giving his bland expression a skeptical edge. However, he didn't argue the subject. "Why are we really here, Crowley?" he asked.

"I told you. I'm thanking you for your help. I wouldn't have figured it out when I did if not for you."

Gabriel raised his glass as if to take another sip of his wine, but instead simply swirled the contents idly, his eyes on Crowley. "And have you bought a dozen other dinners for celestial agents this week, or am I the only one who has earned your gratitude in all this?"

Leaning forward, Crowley rested his chin on his hand, the candlelight just glancing across his good cheekbones. "Quite frankly, Gabriel, they've already benefited from my gratitude."

Gabriel smiled, a wry expression that didn't reach his eyes. "Right. Well, thank you for the wine, demon," he said, pushing back from the table. "But I think I've benefited enough from your gratitude."

"Think what you will. But you're the only one I wanted to see again," Crowley murmured softly, disappointed but not surprised.

Without pausing, Gabriel glanced up curiously with an odd gravity to his expression as he pushed his chair in. When he did speak, however, all he said was, "Good night, Crowley." And then the angel turned to leave the restaurant.

Watching him go, the demon didn't dare speculate on Gabriel's reaction. All he could do now was wait and hope. Although going to bed early was sounding like an increasingly acceptable alternative...

The whole slew of offices among which Gabriel's was buried were closed, their windows darkened. His own door was likely locked, but he expected to be able to get in, and so the door opened easily for him. The archangel slid off his jacket, lying it over the arm of the couch where Crowley had had his encounter with the angel who was posing as Gabriel's secretary. (Of course, if he'd known that, Gabriel probably would have had the whole office cleaned before setting his jacket anywhere; fortunately he and Dobiel hadn't discussed the incident much.)

He hadn't much by the way of accounting to do that evening, but there was some paperwork of another sort that he hoped to get done.

Upon entering his office, Gabriel switched on a lamp. Its dusky yellow glow illuminated the small space. Before he even sat down, a bit of red caught his eye. The angel picked up the valentine…

There was no name on the simple card, but it had the same enigmatic energy as the flowers that still topped the filing cabinet in the corner. For a moment, the angel simply turned the card over in his hands, not quite sure what to think of all this.

Then Gabriel smiled.


	2. March

When Gabriel returned to the accounting office after a late "lunch" (spent mostly working for his _other_ job), he found a demon in his chair and snakeskin shoes resting on the polished surface of his desk.

"Crowley," he said flatly. It wasn't quite a greeting and it wasn't quite a threat. That rather depended on what said demon did in the next ten seconds.

"Gabriel," Crowley returned. He pondered an artless smile, and then thought better of it. "How are you this fine afternoon?"

"Waiting for an important new client, actually," Gabriel said. He circled the desk, setting out his briefcase and snapping it open to rifle through the contents. "So I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to leave."

"Oh, that. I'm afraid I am a bit early. Hope it's no trouble..."

Gabriel looked up sharply. "You're my three o'clock?"

This time, Crowley did smile.

The angel stared, but after a moment something melted in his expression, leaving him looking inexplicably less stern. "Well, you are persistent, demon, I'll give you that..."

"I also haven't paid my taxes in, oh, at least four thousand years. It'll be a big project for you. We should discuss the details over dinner."

The archangel looked very much as though he were about to argue, his brow furrowed as he regarded the demon sitting across from him. But there was something odd about this situation: Gabriel had trouble imagining that Hell would send a lower level demon to thwart any of the projects he'd been working on lately, and he couldn't at all picture them sending someone to thwart him by continually asking him to dinner. It piqued the angel's curiosity just enough to make him answer, somewhat impulsively, "What did you have in mind?"

It was exactly what Crowley wanted to hear. He smothered a victorious look and said, "Quiet little place in the West End. Fantastic wine list."

A pause, and then the angel said cautiously, "All right."

The restaurant was located in the Cumberland Hotel, a modern edifice of steel, glass, and hideous lobby sculpture. Fortunately, the dining room was decorated much more regally in neutral beiges and warm brown velvets. It was, as promised, quiet. This was mostly because it was closed, though that posed little obstacle to a determined demon. If he wanted dinner at four in the afternoon rather than seven, he got it. And if the chefs found themselves preparing a Greek feast, as opposed to their usual French-influenced haute cuisine, that was their problem. Crowley was just pleased to be ensconced in a comfortable booth with an archangel, a bottle of Retsina, and an appetizer of warm pita bread, feta cheese, and tzatziki sauce.

Gabriel, for his part, was rather quiet as well, taking in the lush settings and rich appetizers with little change in his well-worn expression of utter detachment. He'd had clients meet him in similar restaurants before, as well as clients who could barely afford, by mortal standards, to take a glimpse through the window of such a place. Never, though, had he had someone come to him with a centuries-long history of tax evasion.

"So," he said, once they were settled with a glass of wine each. "Four thousand years, and you've suddenly had a change of heart?"

Lifting his glass casually to his lips, Crowley took a sip. "Well, there's someone I'm hoping to impress."

"Oh?"

"From what I hear, he likes things done by the book." The demon tore off a piece of pita bread, added a small amount of the feta and sauce and popped it into his mouth.

Gabriel nodded cautiously, taking a sip of wine. He did not raise his eyes to meet the demon's. "And you expect hiring an angel to do your taxes will do the trick?"

"Couldn't hurt," Crowley shrugged. "At least I know you'll do them properly. Keeps me honest, I guess. I can't exactly influence you the way I can a human. No more writing off those tickets to the symphony as a business expense."

The angel's mouth twitched in a faint smile, which he promptly covered by raising his glass to his lips. "Not so easily influenced, I'd imagine, no. And you realize you'll only be able to write off this dinner if you're paying."

"But of course," he agreed. "That will bring my lifetime number of receipts up to a grand total of one. That isn't a problem, is it?"

"Not exactly by the book," Gabriel replied, "but I expect we'll manage."

Soon after that, the food arrived - an aesthetically appealing spread of a variety of Greek foods. Dolmades, moussaka, pasticcio, and braised lamb graced the dishes set before them along with rice, assorted vegetables, and more pita bread. And despite the angel's predilection for staying on topic, the conversation wandered as they ate, from taxes to cuisine to historical contexts long forgotten. Gabriel found that, by the time he'd begun his second glass of wine, the conversation was oddly... decent.

"Listen, Crowley," the angel cut in after they'd each swapped tales about goings-on in ancient Persia, "I don't mean to be rude, but if we've got an entire year with no receipts to get through..."

But the angel trailed off, his gaze drawn suddenly across the square to the sober spires of a church. He'd been aware of its presence, of course, had heard its bells as they'd shared their dinner in its shadow. And yet there was something solemn in the current peal of the bells, something more than the setting sun glowing in the stained glass of the windows.

"I - I apologize," he stuttered, drawing himself away from the church's stunning presence and back to their table. "I... lost my train of thought for a moment there."

Crowley touched his mouth with his linen napkin as much to hide the grin that threatened to erupt as to ensure he remained tidy after their meal. "No problem. Did you want some dessert? They've got a Mavrodafni Grande Reserve that would pair beautifully with some baklava..."

Gabriel blinked at the demon's question. "That... sounds fine, yes." Baklava was the last thing on his mind as the bells called the faithful to an evening mass; their echoing song seemed utterly distracting for a being who'd looked down on the first prayers from the celestial sphere, who'd attended a number of solemn masses himself, in human form... Why should he be so drawn to this church?

The Church of the Annunciation.

The revelation ran cold down the angel's spine; it wasn't bad, of course, wasn't bad to hear the prayers, and yet Crowley had chosen this day, this evening - the Feast of the Annunciation - to bring him to the steps of the church named for one of Gabriel's most revered duties. Even as the demon gave him a look of polite concern, hundreds of voices were raised in prayer in the building next to theirs, hundreds of faithful spoke his name and it tugged at his being.

_O Blessed Archangel Gabriel, we beseech you,_

_intercede for us at the throne of divine Mercy,_

_that as you did announce to Mary the mystery of the Incarnation,_

_so through your prayers and patronage in Heaven we may obtain the benefits of the same,_

_and sing the praise of God our Savior with the angels and saints in heaven forever and ever. Amen._

Watching the angel carefully, Crowley knew the moment he understood. "Been a busy week for you," he said quietly. "Easter, your personal feast day right after, Feast of the Annunciation a few days later... I was actually going to surprise you on the twenty-fourth, but there's no Church of Saint Gabriel in London." How strange all this official recognition must be, he mused, eyes fixed on Gabriel's flawless face. He, himself, tended to avoid public notice if at all possible; no one prayed to the Serpent or erected churches in his name, giver of knowledge though he may have been.

Gabriel did not seek attention for himself, either, but that perhaps only strengthened the impact of his name falling again and again from the lips of those gathered in the church next door. Half of his mind still occupied by these events, Gabriel looked at the demon critically. His words held no malice, and yet... "You planned this? Why?"

Feeling anything but, the demon gave a casual shrug. "It's the closest thing you have to a special day, like a birthday or something. I thought you might like to celebrate it for once."

The archangel gazed at Crowley for a long moment, trying to discern something. Then, without warning, his cool expression was shattered by laughter. The heavy atmosphere of prayer wrapped thickly around him, intoxicating; unlike wine, which he could easily will to have no effect on him, the power of belief seemed to strike directly at his core. The laughter punctuated a light feeling in his chest, not unpleasant, but heady and somewhat uncontrollable. It was something akin to having finished off an entire bottle of sacramental wine. He wondered that this atmosphere didn't seem to affect Crowley in some opposite manner. Hiding his impulsive mirth behind his napkin, he looked up at the demon again.

"A birthday?" he asked. Humor still colored his voice, though it was not meant to be derisive. "I had no idea that would be so important to you, demon."

"I said 'the closest thing'," repeated Crowley defensively, a little disconcerted by the laughter. He'd never seen the angel so much as give a full smile before, let alone this, and the serpent wasn't sure it wasn't directed at him for having such a ridiculously human notion. "I just thought it might be nice," he added sulkily, picking a piece of bread apart. He'd wanted Gabriel to feel special, maybe even a little sexy, considering that power was an aphrodisiac; instead the demon felt vaguely embarrassed.

Seeing the demon's sullen reaction, Gabriel quickly reigned in his amused reaction. His eyes were still bright, though, as he reached for the wine bottle. "I can honestly say, Crowley," he began kindly, refilling both of their glasses, "that no one has ever asked me to dinner in honor of the Annunciation. Thank you."

Yellow eyes slid askance to look for any sign that he was being mocked. Finding none Crowley cautiously said, "Well, it was a tricky bit of work well done. I can appreciate that." He paused, then, "You've really never done anything to mark the day before?" Gabriel might have found Crowley's gesture absurdly human, but Crowley found Gabriel's attitude absurdly ethereal. Why bother to do all the work on Earth if you didn't partake of its rewards as well?

Gabriel shook his head. "No," he said simply. He didn't particularly want to go into how he hardly expected congratulations for work he'd been created to do; it was simply his purpose. He picked over what remained of their meal, selecting one of the dolmades, and added thoughtfully, "How did you know we'd still be here when the mass began?"

"I didn't," Crowley confessed. "But even if we hadn't made it to the mass," or as close as he could get, really, "I hoped you'd have a pleasant enough afternoon to mark the occasion."

"It is pleasant," Gabriel said. It contradicted much of his existence, being so open with a demon, and yet he felt that Crowley was being genuine in this matter and thought it safe enough to repay it in kind. Choirs' voices echoed in the angel's chest as surely as they reverberated in every corner of the Church of the Annunciation, and the Messenger smiled. "Were you still interested in that baklava?"

The angel was starting to shine slightly around the edges, as if his essence could no longer be contained by a human shell. Though no one else would be at all likely to notice, Crowley found it beautiful. Frightening, yes, but beautiful just the same. Gabriel's small smile became, through the transforming power of light, radiant, and the demon matched it, content that his second plan for seducing the archangel had been more of a success than the first.

Ignoring what his mind was sharing about the other potential uses of honey syrup and cinnamon, the demon nodded, calling over the waiter once more before striking out into a topic that could last another good hour if they lingered over the wine. The angel seemed pleasantly relaxed and vibrant and while that evening might not have been the right time to make his move, Crowley was already thinking of ways to duplicate and expand on his efforts in the near future.


	3. April

In April, Crowley took his annual trip to Florence. It was a longstanding tradition. Very longstanding; he'd met DaVinci on one of these trips. Nearly five hundred years later, he was standing in the Uffizi Gallery looking at some of the work the man had left behind.

Demons don't feel nostalgia, but if they did, Crowley would feel it in Florence. All his best human friends had lived - and died - there. The current one, Mama, had a couple good decades left in her, along with a quantity of children and grandchildren to pamper for years to come. The best thing about visiting Mama was that he always left with a full stomach and a blessedly empty head. He decided to walk off the feeling in the finest art gallery in a city of fine art galleries.

Wandering into the next room, he passed a set of paintings by Fra Fillipo Lippi, his student Botticelli, and _his_ student and Lippi's son, Fillipino. The works were all transcendentally beautiful; the angels luminous and fair with the patient, loving expressions that he never actually saw on their faces but figured someone must. Crowley considered them carefully. Eventually he found that he preferred the good father's works. For a bunch of tight-arsed religious nutbags, Fra Fillipo Lippi was the only one who'd understood what love was. He'd conceived a child, despite his vows, because his passion had outweighed his obedience. Crowley could get behind that.

Sauntering through a few rooms, the demon waited until something caught his eye: That something was an amazing golden altarpiece by Simone Martini depicting the Annunciation - the event he'd celebrated with Gabriel so recently. He had to laugh; Gabriel's stick-up-the-arse expression was dead on, even if the hair colour wasn't, and Mary's pissed off face was priceless. Amused, Crowley sat on the bench in front of the piece to study it carefully. The wings weren't right, but there was something familiar about them... That thought was driven straight out of his head when he noticed the angel's gay little tiara and the words shooting out of his mouth to hit Mary in the head. No wonder she looked so irritated. Chuckling, he almost thought he could hear Gabriel's voice as he looked at the piece, though why his imagination had the archangel speaking Japanese, Crowley couldn't say.

What had been in that manicotti, anyway?

Had he looked up at that moment, Crowley would have seen that he wasn't mistaken about the Japanese. Gabriel was in the next room, enlightening a group of tourists about much of the same history that Crowley recalled in his own wanderings. The archangel, after all, had been an eyewitness to the same events, although Gabriel generally didn't tell the tales as colorfully as Crowley might had it been the demon volunteering in the Uffizi that afternoon.

None of the group noticed the demon except for the angel, who, without pausing in his narrative, seemed to be keeping an eye on the Serpent through the open door leading to the next exhibit.

Drawn out of his reverie by the excited chattering of tourists, Crowley glanced up at the large group passing by and just managed to suppress a double-take when he saw who was acting as their tour guide. Without hesitating, he rose to join the tour, wondering why the hell the Messenger was doing volunteer work in an art museum in Italy.

With his proper suit and dark hair, Crowley blended into the crowd easily, drifting over to two whispering teenage girls. The demon grinned at them. "_The guide really is cute, isn't he_?" he said in Japanese and the girls broke into giggles, their hands covering their mouths, even as their eyes sparkled. It hadn't taken any particular skill to guess what they'd been talking about, not when they'd been following Gabriel's every movement. He had been, too.

When the angel turned to lead them into the next room, all three of them glanced down and started laughing together.

Gabriel must have noticed the addition of a demon to his group - and likely the attention - but he kept an admirably professional demeanor. Ethereal, one might say. In fact, as he touched on each in a series of religious-themed works, the angel's aura grew so bright that Crowley was surprised the humans weren't hiding their eyes. (On the contrary, Crowley's two companions seemed to have inched their way up to the front of the group and were rather blatantly staring.) The angel's tone hadn't changed from when he spoke about other works, and nothing about his expression shifted as he detailed Biblical exploits and celestial tales. It was the reactions around him that made his task obvious: People's eyes glowed as they looked over religious works as though seeing them for the first time. Whispered conversations seemed more awed than politely hushed. It was almost painful to see the inspiration the angel inspired with seemingly little effort at all.

Strike that, it was painful. Crowley did his best to counter it by making a few snarky comments to the people nearest him, but it's not generally a good idea to try to antagonize the being you're trying to get into bed. Especially if he's magnitudes of order more powerful than you. So the demon didn't blatantly contradict Gabriel's work. He was, however, grateful when the tour finally ended some twenty minutes later. After all the expressions of gratitude and more giggling - the only thing the girls were allowed to photograph in the museum was their guide and they took full advantage of that - Crowley waved all the tourists away before sliding over to Gabriel.

"So... Since when do you play Tour Guide Barbie?" Immediately struck with the image of Gabriel in an electric blue mini skirt, the demon paused a moment, a smile tugging at his lips.

"In Florence, or otherwise?" The angel's expression was cold when he looked the demon over, and hardly conducive to Crowley's efforts to imagine him with the tour guide hat - or maybe the gay little tiara. "I would have assumed you already knew all about it, demon, or am I to believe that it's coincidence that you joined my tour group today?"

Crowley sighed. Every time he met Gabriel it was like starting all over again. "It is coincidence, angel, whether you want to believe it or not. I know it's terribly flattering to think I followed you across the continent, but I had business in Florence this week. I had no idea you had a little side business of your own here. Lucrative, is it?"

Gabriel gave Crowley a sidelong glance, but seemed content to at least pretend to accept this explanation. "I wouldn't say lucrative, exactly," he said. "It's usually rather successful. More so when there aren't demons browsing the galleries as well..."

The demon in question raised his hands. "Hey, I didn't interfere. As an outside observer, though, can I suggest that it might be more successful if you actually told the interesting stories?"

Gabriel suddenly looked thoughtful, though it may have been a mere perception, as nothing in his expression really changed. "I'm not trying to force anything on them," he said. "It's better if they find meaning on their own... You didn't interfere too much, though. I suppose I should thank you for that."

"I'm not talking about the religious stories," said Crowley, his expression speaking volumes about how interesting _those_ were. "I mean the stories behind the paintings. Michaelangelo's life-long struggle between religion and homosexuality, Botticelli's life-long struggle between religion and art, hot-headed Caravaggio murdering a man but being forgiven by the Pope on the strength of his paintings... The rivalries, the passions, the politics. That's what people want to know."

The angel looked momentarily annoyed, but there was a smile tugging at his lips when he finally said, "Maybe you should be doing this. Inspiration's always been part of your job description."

With a puzzled, sidelong glance - what had Gabriel meant by that? - Crowley drawled, "Well, I would, but I have another job. And hanging out with Japanese tourists is a bizarre hobby."

"More bizarre than staring at depictions of the Annunciation by yourself?"

Blindsided by the accusation, the demon wasn't quick enough to completely avoid the faint colour that tinged his cheeks. He spluttered out a retaliation. "I was just amused by the image of you bludgeoning Mary into cranky submission." Crowley refused to admit even to himself to all the staring at depictions of the Annunciation he'd done in the past couple of months.

"Artistic license," the angel muttered dismissively. He seemed to have noticed the lack of composure in Crowley's response, as he was now smiling. "So if you didn't come halfway across the continent looking for me, why are you here? Just for the art?"

Feeling exposed, Crowley murmured simply, "I have friends here."

Gabriel looked faintly surprised, though he soon recovered. "I see. And are you... busy with said friends this evening, or would you care to go for a drink?"

It was Crowley's turn to look surprised. "I... what? No! I mean, no, I'm not busy." He tried to compose himself and continued with a bit more dignity. "A drink sounds fine..."

"A legitimately paid for drink, of course."

The demon snorted. "Generally the person who asks pays for the other person's drinks, but I suppose I can make an exception this time."

"Oh, right. I suppose I should. After all, you did come all this way..."

"No, it's fine," said Crowley. "Since I happened to be in the area. I'll tell you what; I'll pay this time. Legitimately. Not like I didn't the last two times... But next time it's on you." Thus ensuring that there would be a next time and having an archangel ever so slightly indebted to him. Life was good for a clever demon.

"But you should know, I'm not a cheap date," he grinned as they headed out the door.


	4. May

It was strange, he mused. He'd gotten into this whole ridiculous situation purely for the sex, but over time and underneath the fifty-two layers of inch-thick steel-plated armour, the Messenger had turned out to be surprisingly intriguing - if one had the patience to discover it. The archangel was intelligent and opinionated; he was professional and exceptionally good looking. He could even be damn funny in a very, _very_ dry sort of way...

_London is beautiful at night from above. Even in this ridiculous pod. Especially when the view includes chocolate-covered strawberries, champagne, and Gabriel. Crowley actually finds himself admiring Gabriel more than the view and rolls his eyes at his own foolishness. He eats a strawberry seductively, remembering his goal, but the angel apparently doesn't notice; his gaze is focused over the city like a benevolent ruler._

_"It's a different world up here," Gabriel says, something almost reverent in his voice, "than when you're walking among them. I'm not sure how you've gotten used to it."_

_"Gotten used to what? Mortals or looking down on them?" he jokes._

_Gabriel casts a wry look at the demon, a hint of a smile in his expression. "I'm not sure you can really call it looking down on them when you risked yourself to save their planet," he murmurs._

_"What can I say? I like sushi," Crowley remarks lightly. It isn't just the sushi, of course, but he's not sure he can explain further._

_The archangel makes a noncommittal noise. "Your superiors may have accepted that answer, but I'd imagine the kraken was rather distressed."_

_"Why?" grins the serpent insouciantly. "I imagine he likes sushi, too." He really doesn't want to talk about this right now. He also privately thinks that the kracken is likely more intelligent than his superiors._

_Gabriel gives him a skeptical glance, but doesn't press the issue. He turns back to the view instead, and Crowley sighs silently._

_A few minutes pass in solemn silence as they slowly revolve, drifting ever closer to the ground. The demon watches Gabriel's image in the glass while Gabriel watches the world._

_"Why did you say that inspiration was always part of my job description when we were in Italy?" Crowley interrupts abruptly._

_The angel's reflection smiles, but he doesn't turn. "Virtues have an eye for the beauties of the world, and the way it works. I'm not surprised you didn't want it to end."_

_"I'm not a..." Crowley begins, then stops. "How do you know I was a Virtue?"_

_Gabriel turns, radiant against the darkness outside, broken only by staccato patches of orange streetlights. "I remember," he says simply._

_Feeling like a vise is clamped around his chest, the demon asks, "Remember what?"_

_It's quiet in the little cabin. "I remember dark hair falling constantly into soft grey eyes," the archangel says in hushed tones. "I remember fast, nimble flying on beautifully patterned wings and the shy smile of a Virtue whose preliminary function was to work on plant life, but who seemed to find a lot of spare time to tease and play with his fellows. Inspiration in all its forms. That's what you were created for. I didn't need to be your direct supervisor to notice."_

_Crowley can't speak. He's tormented with too many memories - visions of Heaven he hasn't had in centuries except in dreams._

_Gabriel continues. "I keep the records, Crowley. It is my purpose to remember." His voice drops even further. "Sometimes it's even my pleasure."_

_Taking a step closer to the Messenger, instinct warring with instinct, Crowley says, "And what have I inspired you to do lately...?"_

_The corners of the angel's lips turn up. "Spend three-quarters of an hour eating strawberries with you inside a ridiculous plastic and glass capsule as it travels slowly in a circle."_

Crowley shook his head and grinned, turning the corner of a London street thronged with businesspeople hurrying to their lunch appointments. That had been a few weeks ago. Now he was ready to surprise the angel again with another outing. He'd scored tickets for the hottest new modern ballet in the West End and it would be an unforgivable waste of money if they didn't go. That would be his argument anyway. It had worked for the London Eye...

Looking at the tickets in his hand and mentally working out what he'd say, the demon walked without seeing until a familiar stray aura caught his notice, though Gabriel's office was still three blocks away. Crowley jerked his head up just in time to catch sight of the archangel sitting with a handsome young man at an outdoor cafe table. Well, sitting was probably the wrong word. What Gabriel was doing was leaning in and gently but passionately kissing him.

The tickets dropped unheeded to the ground.


	5. June

_Ring._

"Yeah?"

"Hello, Crowley."

"Who is this?"

"Gabriel."

_Click._

_Ring, ring._

"What?"

"I'm sorry, Crowley. We seemed to have got cut off there."

_Click._

_Ring, ring._

_Ring, ring._

"Hi. This is Anthony Crowley. Uh. I'm probably not in right now, or asleep, and busy, or something, but leave a message after the tone and I'll get right back to you. Ciao."

_Beeeeeeeeeeeeeep._

"Crowley, this is Gabriel. I apologize for the poor phone connection. I'll ask Dobiel to send a workman to look at the line tomorrow. At any rate, I haven't seen you for some time, so I thought I might check in. Please give me a ring when you have a moment."

_A few days later..._

"Crowley, this is Gabriel again. I suppose you must have been given an urgent assignment somewhere. The Middle East is quite volatile at the moment, so take care and call when you return."

_A few more days later..._

"Crowley, this is Gabriel. I saw your car this morning and Aziraphale says he spoke to you yesterday... Is everything well? Ring me."

_A couple more days later..._

_Ring, ring._

"..."

"Crow..."

"FUCK OFF AND DIE, ANGEL."

_Click._

--

When someone knocked on his door a bit later, Crowley left the comfort of his expensive leather armchair to see who it was. Hoping to terrify some Jehovah's Witnesses, he'd have settled for cruelty to a child selling magazine subscriptions. What he got was a concerned looking archangel.

"Did I say something to upset you?" asked Gabriel without preamble.

The demon let the door close in his face.

After a second, Gabriel opened the door and followed Crowley back into the lounge, taking a seat on the couch.

"Apparently so," the angel said in answer to his own question. "What was it?"

"Exactly what part of 'fuck off and die' did you not understand?"

Gabriel sighed. "Crowley..."

The serpent stood, exasperated, "You didn't _say_ anything. Not everything's about you, all right? Now get the fuck out." He gestured toward the door.

But the angel remained seated, paying more attention to the nuances than the actual words. "No. You're upset and I am not leaving until you tell me why. I think it is something about me. If you're not upset at what I've said, was it something I did?"

Crowley went rigid.

"I don't want to play twenty questions with you. What did I do?"

"Go ask your sodding boyfriend," the demon snarled and stormed toward the kitchen.

Ah.

Gabriel went into the kitchen and sat on a bar stool, watching Crowley angrily pour himself what appeared to be a quintuple scotch in a tumbler. He tried a different tack.

"Why did you invite me to dinner and send me flowers and a valentine in February?"

Tipping back his glass, Crowley was mulishly silent.

"Why did you invite me to dinner again on the feast day of the annunciation, and to drinks in Italy, and around the Millennium Eye?"

"You want to know, angel?" Crowley gestured with his glass, ice clinking softly against the side. "You really want to know? Fine. I was trying to get into your pants." He took another long drink. "I wanted to screw you. There's your big answer. Happy now?"

Paradoxically, Gabriel smiled gently. "Crowley, are you concerned about my dealings with that young man?"

The demon sneered. "Why the fuck would I care what you do with your little catamite?"

"Exactly," said the Messenger, like he was laying down a winning hand. "If you just wanted to seduce me - if that was all I meant to you - why would you care what I did with Andrew?"

"I don't."

"Yet you're upset."

"Fuck you, Gabriel."

"You'd like to."

Crowley stared at him in shocked silence. Eventually he said, "You don't mind?"

An angelic smile. "Not as much as I probably should."

The serpent's drink hit the counter and splashed onto the granite. "Then why the hell go around snogging humans?"

Gabriel rested his elbows on the bar and calmly answered the question with another question. "Crowley, what do you think I do?"

The demon raised an eyebrow. "You're the Messenger. You deliver messages. Like God's postal service or some shite."

"Do you think all messages are delivered the same way?"

"I... what?" Crowley said, confused.

"Some people," explained Gabriel, "can hear the Word and know. Some need to see it instead. And _some_ need to experience it."

"..."

"Andrew needed to understand that God loves all his children. Even the gay ones."

Crowley snorted. "Present company excepted."

The angel only smiled.

"So you shagged him into religion? I don't think that's kosher."

"No?" asked Gabriel. "But you shag them out of it. Seems fair to me."

There was a pause. "I don't," the demon confessed quietly.

"Nor I," the Messenger said in the same hushed tones.

They looked at one another.

After a moment, Gabriel stood, breaking their gaze. "Thank you for the conversation, Crowley. I hope I'll be seeing you soon."

Without another word, the demon watched him go.


	6. July

Angry and confused, it was a few weeks before Crowley could think about Gabriel beyond, 'What the hell was that all about?' Fortunately, he had his work to distract him and did little else for nearly a month. He didn't sleep, didn't eat or drink more than was necessary for his temptations, didn't speak to Aziraphale; in fact, he pursued none of his normal activities outside of work, but that was thriving. It was only July and he'd already met his annual quota.

Something had to give…

In the end, it was his pride.

Crowley found himself sitting on the floor of his office, halfway through a second bottle of scotch trying to figure out what was wrong with his life. All along he'd just wanted to screw Gabriel, so why did it bother him so much when he'd seen him with that human? It wasn't like they couldn't both screw him. Though that idea, far from being comforting, seemed to make him even more angry. The demon prodded at the thought like one might probe a loose tooth.

Had it been anger? He'd gone through all that work to soften up the angel and someone else got the reward. Of course he was angry! It had all been a wasted effort! The idea was irritating, but ultimately seemed unlikely given who was involved...

And why had he felt such relief when Gabriel had said he hadn't slept with the boywhore? Angels couldn't lie, of course, but he'd had to remind himself of that. He hadn't wanted to believe it - he wanted to sustain the anger. He took another drink and picked at the metaphorical scab more. Why be angry, though? Why sustain that? Well, more than usual, anyway... And in truth it hadn't felt entirely like wrath anyway. Crowley was better at picking these things up in other people rather than himself, but it had really felt more like… envy? Had he been professionally jealous of Gabriel getting to the kid first? Or had he - and Crowley had to flop onto the ground because the idea was threatening to drown him - had he been jealous of the boy? The overwhelming sick feeling in his gut told him he was right.

He was apparently jealous of a little nothing because he'd been allowed to touch an angel – no, not just any angel: Gabriel. Though the demon had been striving for months, the manslut had been first to hold Gabriel's flawless hand, first to lick those perfect lips, first to gain his affections and… the bottle of scotch exploded, sending glass shards all over the room.

Crowley stared at the alcohol soaking into the carpet without noticing his bloodied hand. Affections. What had Haniel said? Something about caring about a person's feelings as much as your own?

"…ohshit," he murmured.

* * *

_Six months earlier..._

Haniel smiled at the pretty little authority guarding Gabriel's door like a beautiful blonde pitbull. It was one of the certainties of the universe. If you needed to find the Messenger he'd be behind a desk and Dobiel would be right outside it.

"Heya, dollface. The boss man in?"

Dobiel smiled back, eyes twinkling. "That depends. Did you bring me anything?"

The Lover laughed. "As if I'd forget." He tossed a small wrapped package at her. It held a lovely silk scarf the exact color of her eyes.

Happily tucking the box in a desk drawer, Dobiel stood, smoothed her modest skirt, and knocked lightly on Gabriel's door, gently pushing it open. "Gabriel? Haniel would like a word."

"All right," Gabriel replied, though his eyes never strayed from the report on his desk. "Send him in, then. And remind me later to ask Raphael for a word, would you?"

"He's stopping by as soon as he returns from Tripoli, sir."

This time Gabriel looked up, blinking. "Right. Well, thank you."

"Of course, Gabriel." She turned back to Haniel, and with a nod, held the door open for him.

Stepping through, Haniel lowered his voice and winked his visible eye. "I'll see _you_ later, sweetheart." And Dobiel - sensible, practical, reliable Dobiel - actually giggled and left them without another word.

Eschewing the chair in front of the Messenger, Haniel perched on the corner of his desk, the lines of his wide-shouldered, narrow-waisted, pin-striped gray suit softening slightly.

"Hi, kid. So you're finally back."

He pulled out a silver cigarette case and showed it to Gabriel.

"Mind?"

"Not at all," said Gabriel, who undoubtedly would have minded had he not had the means to clear the smell of smoke from his office the instant the cigarette went out. He also might have had a comment about the other archangel's seating arrangement, except that six thousand years had left him somewhat accustomed to Haniel's relative informality. "How have you been, Haniel?"

Haniel drew out a cigarette and a silver lighter, going through the ritual of lighting the cigarette and putting it to his lips. It was the latest of many oral fixations, all, more or less, overtly sensual. He gazed at Gabriel with his blue eye for a moment and the corners of his lips twitched.

"Oh, I'm swell, sweetheart. Aces. Nice of you to ask."

The Lover might have been dismayed to know that the term 'oral fixation' did nothing more than remind Gabriel vaguely of the enthusiasm of the celestial choir. Gabriel couldn't say that he did not appreciate Haniel's line of work: After all, the Lord had made him, just as he had made the need for love in the world. It was simply a subject that had never much concerned the Messenger on a personal level.

When it didn't seem like more was forthcoming, Gabriel said, "And was there any particular reason for your visit today?"

Haniel gazed at him a long time before wrapping his lips around his cigarette for a slow drag. "Coupla weeks ago you went down to that crumb's place and didn't get to first base."

Something in Gabriel's expression went hard. "That was his choice," he explained, biting off each word. "I was fully prepared to do my duty."

"Sure you were," said Haniel dismissively. "Thing is, you might hafta do it again."

"What?! Haniel, I am not going to whore myself out to every demon you think is a candidate..."

Haniel held up a hand to interrupt him. "Don't blow your wig. It's not every goon," he said. "It's the same one."

Gabriel crossed his arms and looked up at his fellow archangel with a fierce expression. "Explain yourself."

The Lover sighed. "Thing is, the little snake came to Aziraphale's joint when I was there and told us what went down with you two." He held up his thumb and first finger about an inch apart. "He's this close to getting it, so I want you to let him win you over, dig?"

"Why me?" Gabriel protested. "Why not Aziraphale?"

"Because he's sweet on you, not the professor. Think he's a bit of a masochist, honestly..."

The Messenger ran his hands over his face. "This is utterly ridiculous. What possible benefit is it to us if I play rent boy to a demon?"

Haniel lost the casual pose he'd been affecting and leaned forward intently. "This could be the whole enchilada, boyo. We've been thinkin' all this time that finks lost all capacity for love when they lost the Big Guy's. If that ain't actually the pudding, then maybe we can snag them one by one until we've got the blue ribbon by default without anyone endin' up in a Chicago overcoat."

"You want to win the war by giving every angel a demonic boyfriend? Michael must love this plan," replied Gabriel dryly.

"Mike'll do whatever it takes. That's his job, and this is yours."

Gabriel sighed. "You discussed this with God?"

Haniel sat back up. "Ab-so-lute-ly. The Big Guy showed the teeth."

"He smiled," the Messenger translated. "Lovely. So I have no choice in this. How am I supposed to seduce the serpent, then?" he asked, defeated.

"You don't," grinned Haniel, stubbing out his cigarette on Gabriel's desk, then vanishing it and the ash into nothingness. "Play hard to get and let him do all the work. He'll be after you like white on rice. Chill, sunshine. It'll be gravy."

* * *

Gravy it was not, but then again, Gabriel likely wouldn't have used the word 'gravy' to describe most anything outside of a Sunday dinner.

He hadn't known what to think when Haniel had approached him - a second time, no less - about this ridiculous notion of teaching a demon to care for others. Honestly. As though demons simply sat about the abysmal Pit wishing for a Hug. But in the same way that Raphael saw the root of every problem as being a case of irritable bowel, it made sense that the Lover would see it as love.

But it simply wasn't possible, was it? Gabriel had spent his entire existence working upon the simple foundations that the Fallen were fundamentally different. Once, perhaps, they'd all been the same, but demons were missing something...

Right?

The archangel took a sip of wine; it was a luxury he hadn't allowed himself much until lately, but Crowley had rather encouraged the habit, and besides, he'd been hanging onto this 2003 Sancerre that Haniel had given him for far too long. The truth of the matter was that, were his preconceptions to be upheld, this matter would have been exceedingly simple. He'd have seen nothing but the basest of motives in Crowley's actions and been able to report to Haniel that he was mistaken. Gabriel had been expecting Crowley to be unrepentantly charming. He'd been expecting some unannounced visits and perhaps even a few mostly pleasant evenings. And he'd expected to go back to Haniel and tell him nothing had come of things. Demons were demons, and cared for no one. End of story.

But Crowley was adding a postscript to this story, and that's what complicated things.

The Messenger knew enough not to confuse envy with caring, but every bit of the guarded confession he'd garnered from Crowley during their last meeting seemed to spell out that the Serpent was slowly losing sight of his original goal. Could it be that Haniel was right?

If he'd thought for a second that Haniel was right, he'd never have agreed to this mess.

Gabriel was an angel after all. Resisting a few demonic advances - in whatever sense of the word - was nothing new. But he wasn't going to lead anyone on for the sake of this twisted experiment, and he certainly didn't feel anything for Crowley, apart from a vague concern for a rather amiable dinner companion...

... Right?

Right. His conscience was clear: The next time he saw Crowley, he was going to tell him everything.


	7. August

Having made his decision, Gabriel looked for Crowley every once in a while, hoping to catch him at home, but the demon seemed to spend his every moment out in seedy nightclubs doing who knew what. After several weeks of uneasy suspense, the angel realized he was going to have to track him down in one of those places to explain...

It was called Alexandria and Gabriel felt very self-conscious and out-of-place as he showed his identification and went inside. It was as if he were walking into a wall of noise. The atmosphere was smoky with brightly coloured lights that split the darkness like the sun breaking through clouds to shine through a stained glass window. In his conservative white buttoned shirt and charcoal slacks, the Messenger stood out amongst the legions of young men in leather trousers and what appeared to be black netting serving as a shirt. He could feel Crowley's presence nearby, but couldn't see him amidst the chaos, so the angel went to the bar.

"What'll it be?" the man behind the bar yelled.

There were no wine bottles on display behind the bar, so Gabriel didn't dare ask. "Gin and tonic."

The bartender nodded and made his drink. As he passed it over, the angel slid him a generous ten euro note before taking up the glass and heading further into the room.

He eventually found Crowley tucked into a slightly quieter velvet-lined corner booth in the back talking earnestly with an excitable young man with pinched features and an unfortunate tendency toward extravagant hand gestures. The young man noticed him standing there first.

"Oh, honey, I really hope you're over here to talk to me..."

Crowley looked up to see who he was talking to and started. "Gabriel?!"

The human actually pouted. "Figures. You get all the good ones, Anthony."

Gabriel raised an eyebrow. Crowley sighed.

"Gabriel, this is my friend, Pierre. Pierre, this is my, uh, accountant, Gabriel."

"Your 'uh, accountant'?" Pierre asked, looking Gabriel appreciatively up and down. "Uh huh. I need an 'uh, accountant' myself..."

The demon glared at him through dark lenses and Pierre threw his hands up. "Okay, okay, I'm going." With a knowing grin, the young man scooted out of the booth. "I'll go get more dirty martinis. I may be a while, so have fun."

Once he'd gone, Crowley ran a hand through his hair. "What are you doing here, angel?" he hissed.

Gabriel sat in the vacated space. "I need to talk to you, Crowley. But you haven't been at home in weeks."

"I wonder why," said the serpent dryly. "Did you consider that I might be avoiding you?"

"Yes," said the Messenger simply. "But this is important."

Crowley slumped against the padded backrest. "What is?"

Though Gabriel had thought about this moment a great deal, now that it had actually come time to tell Crowley the truth, he found it incredibly difficult. He'd expected to be in the demon's comfortable flat, not in a noisy club surrounded by gyrating, hedonistic sinners. He couldn't concentrate. Couldn't remember the words he'd so carefully chosen...

"C'mon, Gabriel," said the demon, crossing his arms protectively over his chest. "I don't have all night. What is it?"

He wished he could see Crowley's eyes; he couldn't read him like this, shuttered off and hiding amongst light and sound. "...I haven't been entirely honest with you," Gabriel managed.

Crowley gave a bitter laugh. "Really?"

The angel had always found that it was better to just get bad news over with quickly. The longer he waited, the harder it would be. So he tried to explain. "I had orders to encourage your advances. To... to lead you on. But it's not right and I refuse to do it any longer. It's not fair to either of us when I really don't have those kinds of feelings for you."

Gabriel had been talking softly to the table and Crowley had hardly heard a word amidst the din. The demon leaned forward. "WHAT?"

"I SAID I DON'T HAVE FEELINGS FOR YOU," Gabriel yelled back, frustrated on many levels.

Out of nowhere, Pierre set three martinis down on the table. "Way to be blunt about it, honey," he said, sitting in Crowley's lap. "I figured you were the one he's been pining over for who knows how long, but if you don't want him, that just means there's more for the rest of us." The human turned to talk to Crowley and smoothed his hair. "Poor baby. Why don't I console you back at my place...?"

The serpent was still and expressionless, though his sunglasses were trained in the archangel's direction. Gabriel squirmed under the intense silent gaze. "I, uh, just thought you should know," he said, feeling wretched. "...I'll go now." And he left, weaving his way carefully through the amassed dancers toward the door.

Crowley watched him leave, then unceremoniously dumped Pierre out of his lap. "What the fuck did you do that for?" he snarled.

"You like him a lot," insisted Pierre with a smile. "I can tell. So I was helping."

"Don't," the demon said, his anger suddenly falling off into sadness. "Just... don't." And he walked away without another word.

The young man shrugged as he pulled one of the martinis closer and fished out the olive. He had just been trying to give Gabriel something to think about... Oh, well. That was his good deed for the night. But right now, he had three drinks and a whole room full of pretty boys who might like one. Pierre grinned.


	8. September

Gabriel was, in a word, bored. His work was no more or less challenging than it had been, and it remained fulfilling, but there was a faint dissatisfaction somewhere in his life. Some empty space that niggled at him.

A week after he'd last talked to Crowley in the club, he asked his second-in-command and sometime secretary Dobiel if she'd be interested in going out for a drink after work. She gave him an odd look and said she had a meeting scheduled with Remiel and Sariel that she needed to attend. Gabriel didn't ask again.

Two weeks after he'd last talked to Crowley in the club, he asked Raphael what his plans for the evening were. The Healer said he was attending a medical conference in Cairo and invited Gabriel along with a smile. The Messenger went, but after the third panel discussion over low-tech methods for properly stimulating the vagus nerve in order to circumvent attacks of supraventricular tachycardia, he made his excuses and left.

Three weeks after he'd last talked to Crowley in the club, he asked Michael if he'd like to have a chat. They spent an incredibly awkward hour together, Gabriel with a glass of Pinot Noir and Michael with water, though neither had much to say that wasn't directly related to their work.

Four weeks after he'd last talked to Crowley in the club, Gabriel realized that he was waiting for the demon to find him and suggest some kind of friendly outing. But it wasn't going to happen. No more going out for drinks. No more engrossing conversations where he couldn't predict what was going to be said next. No more surprises of any kind ever. He might not have had romantic feelings for Crowley, but he sort of... missed his company. On occasion.

So Gabriel tracked him down at the Ritz. The maitre d' looked rather shocked when the angel asked to sit with Crowley, but did as he was asked and led him cautiously over.

"Excuse me, sir, this gentleman is requesting to join you this evening...?"

Crowley looked up from the book he'd been quietly reading (some wretched piece of crap about chaste teenage vampires; he had to stay up-to-date on pop culture) and raised his eyebrows. Taking a moment to overcome his surprise, he eventually nodded and dismissed the human.

When the maitre d' had left and the demon finally spoke, his voice was all sharp angles and broken glass. "What the fuck do you want?"

Gabriel winced slightly at his tone. "I just wanted to check in and see how you were doing," he offered.

"You are so full of shit," snapped Crowley. "You made it perfectly clear that you don't give a damn about me."

"I never said..."

"No?" Crowley interrupted bitterly. "You said, and I quote, 'I don't have feelings for you'. Very loudly, I might add. How precisely was I supposed to interpret that, angel? Do tell me where I'm wrong. I long to know."

The archangel pulled out a chair and sat, as much to buy himself time to think as anything. "Perhaps I could have worded that better," he began and Crowley snorted darkly, "But I wanted you to know the truth. I didn't want to lead you on when neither of us has romantic feelings for the other. That doesn't mean I didn't enjoy the time we spent together, though."

Crowley's expression hardened. "Uh huh," he said sarcastically. "Well, I'm not buying it. Why are you really here?" He sat back in his chair looking thoughtful. "Oh, wait, I get it. You told Haniel that you fucked up his little plan and he's now pissed at you, so you have to try and get back on my good side. That's it, isn't it?"

"What? No! I haven't told Haniel yet..." It was difficult to meet the demon's eyes, even hidden as they were. He could easily imagine the cold expression they held.

"Damn it, Gabriel!" Crowley suddenly exclaimed, banging the table and startling the angel. "I'm not playing your games anymore."

Gabriel looked stricken. "Crowley, I'm not..."

"Don't even," snarled the serpent. "Don't you dare try to deny it. Oh, you played it very prettily, I'll give you that. Going out with me when I asked, pretending to reluctantly have a good time, even tracking me down in Italy and insisting I'd tracked you down instead. Then you put me off my guard by snogging that fag and acting all concerned about my feelings afterward, explaining that you were just doing your job and it meant nothing. Two months later, out of nowhere, you're telling me to sod off and now you want to be pals. You try to tell me that's not a game and I will fucking smack you, poncy archangel or no."

Pushing back from the table, Gabriel stood solemnly. There was really no way to reply that the demon would find at all satisfactory, so in an odd echo of their first encounter, he merely said, "Right. Well, thank you for your time, then. Good night, Crowley," and left, his expression grave.

When Gabriel reached the door, he paused to glance back at the demon. Crowley's head was resting on the table, buried in his arms; he looked utterly miserable and Gabriel didn't feel any better.

But what he did feel - for the first time in a month - was alive.


	9. October

"Haniel to see you, Gabriel."

The Messenger nodded. "Thank you, Dobiel. Show him in."

She did and moments later, the Lover was once again perched on the corner of his desk. Uncomfortably certain that he was about to be grilled about the whole Crowley situation without even being sure how he felt about it himself, Gabriel asked quietly, "How can I help you today, Haniel?"

Haniel didn't reply at first. He just tipped his fedora back to give Gabriel the once over. Apparently satisfied with what he saw, he said, "Need a favor-avous, kiddo. There's a fink wingding going down in Leicester Square. Someone should ankle over there but it seems the other fellas made tracks and it's not my scene. Got another urgent gig I'm working on at the mo."

"You want me to investigate a demon's activity?" he translated, confused. "Why not Raguel? Surely she's a better choice to handle this... Or one of the other cherubs?" The Messenger wondered how Haniel had come to be involved in this at all.

The Lover gave an expressive shrug and lit a cigarette. "Hooey. You're the right fella for the job. You know your onions when it comes to The Big Smoke."

"Well, yes, I know London well, but Haniel, that doesn't mean..."

"Swell," Haniel interrupted, blowing a smoke ring. "Ring-a-ding-ding!"

Gabriel knew when he'd been out-gunned, so he stood wearily and headed for the door. It was better than waiting around until Haniel remembered something else he wanted to talk about...

"Hold up!" exclaimed the Lover, hopping onto his feet. Gabriel gave him a wary look. "You can't just go in that get-up. You've gotta put on your glad rags."

"What?"

"It's a holiday, boyo. Halloween. You've gotta look the part."

Gabriel crossed his arms over his chest. "Oh, for the love of... You want me to put on a costume and thwart a demon in a crowd of people in London on Halloween night without drawing undue attention."

"That's about the long and the short of it, sweetheart," Haniel grinned.

"You're enjoying this," Gabriel said bitterly. He thought for a moment, trying to come up with something simple, and Remiel came to mind. The angel of hope was always wearing scrubs to tend to his nursing duties even if his boss, the Healer, seemed to prefer glittery t-shirts and jeans with holes in the knees. With an economical gesture, Gabriel was wearing a lab coat over his usual white shirt and grey slacks and had a stethoscope around his neck. "Acceptable?" he asked dryly.

"Sure. You look snazzy. Don't take any wooden nickles, now."

"Trust me," said Gabriel feelingly. "I won't." And he left for the mortal plane.

***

Landing discreetly, the Messenger quickly made his way into the utter chaos that was Leicester Square. Everywhere he looked were intoxicated people in strange costumes, each more bizarre than the last. There weren't many ghosts and vampires around. Not when one could be Marie Antoinette at her most extravagant, the Red Death from the masquerade scene of Phantom of the Opera, or what appeared to be a giant prophylactic. Gabriel stood still a moment, trying to get his bearings when he felt a hand touch his arm. It belonged to a beautiful, if somewhat artificially so, brunette in a rather revealing white outfit.

"Ooh, what a handsome doctor," she purred. "You look like you need a naughty nurse..." And she wiggled to show her, ahem, qualifications.

"Thank you, but no," Gabriel replied quickly. As he removed the nurse's hand, however, the angel was struck by something that he had to classify as more than just 'naughty'. The girl had the sense of true evil on her: faint traces, but enough to let him know that she had recently been influenced by an agent of Hell.

The nurse pouted and slinked off, muttering something about how the cute ones were always gay.

Gabriel knew he couldn't depend on her to lead him back to the demon – she may not have even seen him if he'd been practicing his hijinks from a distance – but the solid proof that there was a demon nearby set Gabriel on edge more than any of the semi-lewd acts being performed by the large contraceptive and his new friend, the pirate wench, on the makeshift dance floor at the middle of the square. The angel tried to stretch out his awareness to locate his foe on a different playing field, but the odd powers of belief and superstition that had long accompanied All Hallow's Eve mixed with the current drunken revelry to confound any sense he had of the supernatural more than three meters from him. Unless the demon were going to perform the equivalent of a small star imploding, Gabriel wasn't likely to sense his working until he'd practically stumbled over him.

The archangel could sense his work, though, which meant that this enigmatic agent would know Gabriel's when he ran across it. And Gabriel was here to thwart...

A young woman dressed as some sort of vampire stumbled into him, grasping at his sleeve for support. Halfway through her slurred apology, she froze, looked him over, and then asked if she couldn't make it up to him in a rather indecent manner. Gabriel smiled and, saying nothing, helped her steady herself in her high heels. In this brief contact, he not only learned that Connie, a young woman from Michigan studying for a semester abroad, had forgotten that today was her grandmother's birthday, but also subtly drew forth the thought that she should call before it got too late in Detroit.

"I have to go," she told Gabriel abruptly, her eyes going wide. She wandered away from him, heels clunking as she went. Before she'd gotten three steps from him, she'd drawn out her mobile phone. "Hi, Grannie. It's me, Connie... No, Grannie, that's just the radio you hear..."

Forty-five minutes later, Gabriel had convinced one husband not to cheat on his wife (as well as said wife not to cheat on her husband – he dropped heavy hints for marriage counseling to both of them), inspired twelve people not to drink to excess, and had even managed to start a nice limbo on the dance floor, which generally discouraged the kind of suggestive moves that had been prevalent before. Whoever this demon was, he had to know he was here by now.

"I guess subtlety never was Heaven's strong point," said a dry voice at Gabriel's elbow. Gabriel turned quickly to find a young man in a Roman legionnaire's costume. It was amazingly accurate as far as Gabriel could remember, with the plumed helmet, elaborate bronze chest plate, short leather skirt, and long shin guards, but what was most striking was the man's piercing grey eyes.

After a moment, recognition dawned.

"Crowley?" Gabriel felt somewhat foolish at the surprise in his voice, but those eyes...

"Don't act so damn _surprised_, angel," Crowley snapped. "Aren't you tired of the fucking stalker act yet?"

"What? I... no. Your eyes..." said Gabriel. He remembered those eyes now. He'd forgotten how penetrating they'd been. Though Gabriel never spoke much with Crowley back then - not when he was responsible only for the authorities and the virtue that Crowley had been served under Haniel's command - the angel was sure those eyes had tracked his movements more than once. That frank gaze had been almost like a physical presence. And now, without his ever-present sunglasses, Crowley looked entirely different. Softer, perhaps, despite his angry expression. Almost... angelic.

"Contacts," replied Crowley shortly. "What the hell are you doing here?"

"Sent to look for a demon," the angel murmured unthinkingly. "Have you seen one around?"

Crowley looked amazingly disdainful despite the coloured contact lenses. "Not recently," he said, drier than a good martini in summer, "but I'll let you know the next time I pass a mirror."

Gabriel stared at him. Had he actually just forgotten...? "Look, I didn't know... I thought Haniel would have told me if it was you."

Crowley blinked. "Haniel? Haniel sent you?"

The archangel nodded. "It was some kind of favor. He didn't really explain, but he couldn't come down this evening; he had another project..."

To his surprise, the serpent burst out laughing. "Classic," he managed between breaths. "Totally classic."

"What is?"

"Haniel set you up, angel," Crowley said. "He made you the patsy. Set you to take the rap. Thirties slang not helping? Look, I'll bet you a thousand pounds that there wasn't any other 'project' he was busy with tonight."

"You think Haniel invented that story just to get me here? Why?" But Gabriel knew. Before he'd finished asking the question – maybe before he'd even arrived. He knew as well as if it had been written in shining letters in the sky. He'd never told Haniel about his confession to Crowley, so the Lover was still pushing his agenda forward; he was giving Gabriel further opportunities to try and seduce the demon - or be seduced. Whichever.

The thing that Gabriel didn't understand was why none of this really upset him.

"Fuck if I know," Crowley was saying. He shrugged, his armour clanking. "But you don't seem too surprised."

"I..." Gabriel shook his head faintly. "I should go."

It was almost like a shadow fell over Crowley's face in the well-lit London night. The angles of his cheekbones stood out in high relief but his bright eyes were hooded. "You came all the way down here, you sure you won't stay for a drink..." he asked, his tone voicing something that even the Messenger couldn't interpret.

A smile touched the edges of the archangel's lips. "…All right, tempter. I suppose I have enough time for one."


	10. November

The one promised drink turned out to be more like three or four, although Crowley insisted it was still the same one as long he refilled it before the glass was empty. As the warmth of it spread throughout Gabriel's chest, the angel decided that it wouldn't hurt anything if he stayed a bit longer - in order to prevent the demon from doing whatever nefarious deeds he'd had planned, of course.

In the end, however, he didn't tarry much past midnight, when wicked All Hallow's Eve passed into pious All Saints Day and Crowley joked about ghoulies and beasties needing to get their heads down. Besides, Gabriel really did need to go see Haniel. He cleared the alcohol from his system - the loose, relaxed feeling remaining somehow - said his goodbyes, and disappeared back up to Heaven.

Uncertain how exactly to bring up the matter with the Lover, Gabriel first knocked lightly on the open door of Haniel's second-in-command.

"Sariel?" he asked, peering into the bright, airy studio.

The angel of inspiration looked up from his easel and smiled dreamily. He had paint smudged across one cheek and another drip in his long hair. "Hello, Gabriel. You look very... professional today." He paused, eyes narrowed critically as though he were getting ready to paint Gabriel's portrait. "Is that Remiel's coat?"

Gabriel looked down at his clothes with some dismay; he'd forgotten to change. "Er, yes. I borrowed it for Halloween."

"Oh, is it Halloween?" Sariel asked brightly. "Everyone always looks so lovely on Halloween..."

"It was," replied the archangel cautiously. Talking to Sariel could be somewhat disconcerting; one never really knew what was going to happen next.

The virtue nodded in understanding. "And you wanted to keep the coat afterward because it smells like Remiel, right? Does it still?" Rather than wait for an answer, Sariel stood and buried his nose in Gabriel's collar. "Oh! It does..."

Gabriel started and took a step back instinctively. "Um. Quite." A door on the far wall with the Lover's name on it in peeling gold letters seemed the only obvious means of escape for him now. "Sariel," he said, "would you let Haniel know that I'd like to speak with him, please?"

"I can't..." sighed Sariel sadly, still standing in Gabriel's personal space.

"Can't?" repeated the Messenger faintly. "Why ever not?"

"The boss isn't here. Won't be back for weeks. Left for some big project, he said."

Oddly enough, Gabriel's first thought was that Crowley owed him a thousand pounds. But his second was, "And he didn't tell you where he was going?"

"Of course he did, silly. But he said I wasn't to tell that stuffy drip anything about it. Meaning you." Sariel grabbed Gabriel's hand suddenly and tugged him nearer to one of the windows. "Oh, that's nice. The light brings out the cerulean in your eyes much better here."

"I... Yes." The archangel didn't know what to say about that - or what to think about Haniel's disappearance.

Sariel smiled, and it was a disarming look, like that on the face of a child who's about to ask where babies come from. "So, have you seen that pretty demon lately?"

Gabriel nearly gaped at the jarring change in subject. "What?"

"The one with the beautiful eyes," Sariel elaborated. He tilted his head curiously, and then added as something rather like an afterthought, "Would you say that they're more goldenrod or dandelion?"

"Gold..." Gabriel began. "Wait, what? Why do you ask?"

The virtue went back to his seat by way of an answer, flipping around the canvas he'd been working on. Crowley gazed frankly out at the archangel through half-lidded eyes, his head thrown back in ecstasy. He sat nude on a stool, his hands tightly gripping the sides; the only concession to modesty being a gossamer fabric draped across his lap. The demon's body was covered with swirling, inky patterns and illuminated by a very baroque shaft of light that shone from an angle, picking out highlights and deepening shadows.

The Messenger felt vaguely ill.

"Do you like it?" asked Sariel brightly. "I can't quite get the color of his eyes right, but isn't he handsome? He was a lovely canvas..."

"He posed for you?" Gabriel asked in a small voice. "Like that...?"

"Oh no!" Sariel exclaimed, and the archangel felt some bizarre relief, until, "I added the little cloth."

The blood pounding in his ears, the Messenger felt suddenly overwhelmed with physical sensation.

"Are you all right, Gabriel?" inquired the worried-looking virtue. "You've gone very pale. Would you like some water? Or there's the couch in Haniel's office if you'd like to lay down…"

"No," murmured the archangel. "No, I think I'll just…" He waved a hand vaguely at the door and left without further ceremony. Sariel's eyes tracked him until the moment he disappeared out of sight, and then the virtue shrugged and hauled his canvas back to his workspace.

Making his way to his own office, Gabriel couldn't have said who passed him in the hallowed halls or what route he'd taken. Dobiel tried to say something as he passed, but he ignored her, shutting his door behind him. Gabriel sagged into his chair and put his suddenly aching head on the desk.

After a few minutes, there was a light tap on the door and his second poked her head in, a look of concern on her face. "Gabriel? Is everything all right?"

The Messenger looked up, his features as serene as ever. "Yes, Dobiel, thank you."

"Sariel stopped by," she persisted. "He said you were ill."

"I feel perfectly fine now," said the archangel. "I was lightheaded for a moment, but it was likely just the fumes from Sariel's paints."

She looked unconvinced. "Can I get you anything?"

"How about those status reports from South America?" Gabriel suggested. "And anything else that requires my attention."

Dobiel frowned. It wasn't what she'd meant, and she knew that he knew that. But she nodded anyway. "Yes, Gabriel." With a swish of her skirt, the authority left.

She returned soon after, her arms full of documentation, and Gabriel gladly buried himself in the paperwork.

A few hours later there was another knock at the door, and the Messenger looked up to see kind, dark eyes outlined in kohl.

"May I help you, Raphael?"

The Healer smiled. "I was going to ask the same of you. I hear you're not feeling well."

Gabriel shot his friend a wry look. "Reports of my demise are greatly exaggerated."

"Mmm," said Raphael noncommittally. "From the state Dobiel was in, I expected a broken neck at least."

"As you can see, I'm perfectly fine."

The light glinted off the glittery graphic on the front of Raphael's t-shirt as he moved behind Gabriel's chair. "Actually, your lungs are a little irritated," he said thoughtfully, "and your shoulder muscles are tighter than one of Michael's drill team formations."

"Just got back from London," Gabriel said.

"That would explain the smoke at least." The Healer put his hands on Gabriel's back; the Messenger felt a curious tingle as Raphael cleared out every last bit of the pollutants he'd inhaled. Then the Healer began to rub across the Messenger's shoulders and neck, beginning with light pressure and gradually increasing it whenever he found a knot.

His head lolling forward in contentment, Gabriel murmured, "You don't have to do that."

"I know." Raphael's smile was clear in his voice. "But I enjoy it, and I don't get to do it very often. You know, I think it's been almost a year since I last gave a massage. It was that demon in London. Crowley."

Gabriel sat bolt upright.

"Whoa! You're going to undo all my work…"

The Messenger pulled a sheaf of papers closer to him. "Thank you for your assistance, Raphael, but I have a great deal of work to see to at the moment. You can rest assured that I am well."

"But…"

"_Thank you_, Raphael."

The Healer dropped his hands, picking awkwardly at the hole in his jeans. With one last inscrutable look, he walked out.

With a sigh, Gabriel picked up his pen once more. However, it wasn't long before he was interrupted again - this time by an angel with sandy hair and a vaguely bewildered gaze.

"Hello?"

"Come in, Remiel," said Gabriel, resigned.

The angel of hope took a few steps inside the door and stopped, looking uncertain.

"Is there something I can help you with?" Gabriel asked him. The seraph was acting even more lost than usual.

"What? Oh." Remiel removed the tiny headphones from his ears, and it was only then that Gabriel noticed the wire connecting them to an electrical device at his waist. "Sorry, Gabriel. Couldn't hear a thing with those in."

The archangel raised an eyebrow.

"Right," said Remiel. "So, erm, I was wondering if you were finished with my coat…"

"Oh!" Gabriel stood and shrugged out of the lab coat. "Yes, of course. Thank you for letting me borrow it. Sariel thought I was keeping it because it smelled like you."

"Does it?"

"Apparently…"

Remiel laughed. "And I'll bet I know how he found out."

Sharing a knowing smile, Gabriel handed over the coat. Remiel pulled it on and popped one of the earbuds back into his ear.

"What are you listening to?" asked the Messenger as the faint strains of music began to play on the edge of hearing. He hadn't thought the seraph was all that involved in the choirs.

"Queen," Remiel answered. "A rock and roll band. Have you heard of them? When I went down to his flat, the demon Crowley…"

Gabriel knocked over a stack of papers on his desk.

"Oh, I'm so sorry!" Remiel exclaimed, bending to help pick up the mess.

"No!" said Gabriel. "They're… no, it's fine. I'd better clean this up myself. Thank you."

"If you're sure…"

The archangel made a sharp hand gesture, and the papers were neatly stacked in order once more.

"I'm sure."

Remiel frowned suddenly, his nursing instincts coming to the fore. "You know, Gabriel, you look a bit peaky. Would you like me to fetch Raphael?"

Going very still, Gabriel said calmly. "No, thank you, Remiel. I feel fine. Now I have urgent business elsewhere, so if you don't mind…"

The chief seraph blinked. "Oh. Right. Goodbye. See you later." With one more glance over his shoulder, Remiel left.

Before anyone else could stop by, Gabriel quickly gathered up his papers and stepped out the door. "Dobiel," he ordered his second, "I'm going down to the accounting office for some quiet. I am not to be interrupted."

She gazed at him with wide blue eyes. "Yes, sir," she said after a moment's hesitation.

And Gabriel was gone.


	11. December

Gabriel showed up on Crowley's doorstep on Christmas Eve with a bottle of Pinot Grigio in one hand and a vibrant red poinsettia in the other. "I thought you'd like some company this evening," was his explanation and the demon certainly wasn't complaining, though he eyed the plant with mistrust. "This is just for some colour. It's from Mexico."

Crowley accepted the decorative plant with surprising grace and placed it on the ultramodern coffee table in the lounge without so much as a dirty look. There'd be time enough for that later... He then went to fetch some wine glasses as Gabriel looked around the flat.

"It looks much the same," the angel commented. It had been almost exactly a year since he'd been there last and then not under the best of circumstances. He tried to put that from his mind. Duty. He'd only been following orders. But so much had changed since then. Would he truly have been able to go through with it then? Could he now, orders or no? Did he want to? He remembered how he'd felt looking at Sariel's painting, but he still hadn't made any sense of the turmoil. The angel had hoped that coming here would help ease his confusion. It hadn't yet.

"Yes. I must have forgotten to hang my 'Up, Jesus' banner again this year," called out Crowley as sarcastically as he could manage, which wasn't very, considering that Gabriel had thought to come on what was usually the most dreary night of the year, when the most he could look forward to was a nice fire and curling up with the new Tom Clancy book while all the rest of the world rejoiced together. But the archangel made him think of something suddenly. "It must have been, what, July when you visited her, right? Was it like they say?"

"Visited... oh." Gabriel blinked, not wary of the new subject matter, but suddenly more focused; it wasn't that this was something he felt he couldn't talk about. It was just rarely broached, even among his peers, and never before had Crowley brought up such a prominent aspect of Heaven's work on Earth as the Mother of God.

It did, however, save him from having to pursue the 'Up, Jesus' sign, which was surely much more dangerous territory.

"I'm not sure what exactly they say about it anymore, but the basic story has always been fairly accurate," Gabriel replied, his voice raised to carry into the other room.

Coming in from the kitchen, Crowley expertly popped open the bottle and poured out two glasses. He handed one to Gabriel. "I've always wondered about that. So you showed up in the ol' blaze of glory and said 'Look, you're knocked up with the Son of the Lord,' and she said, 'Oh, all right then. But the old guy I'm engaged to won't be half chuffed.' And that was it? See, I'd have thought she'd panic a bit. What with it never happening to anyone before in the history of the world and all. There had to be some doubt there..."

The Messenger's eyes fell to the goblet in his hand as he called forth the details of the story. "She wasn't pregnant at the time. It was her choice whether or not to go through with it in the end, although I doubt very much that she felt that way. She was scared half out of her wits, as I recall. I didn't help much, of course," he added, smiling without really knowing why. "I don't always appear to them in my true form, you know. It's not always necessary. But this time... well, she had every right to be scared either way, and I didn't want to risk her doubting who I was. So they've got that part right, I suppose - the whole 'blaze of glory,' as you so eloquently put it.

"There's always a certain amount of fear there, as I'm sure you've noticed: that moment they first encounter something beyond their understanding. And they want to run, most of them, but they can't. They never do. Like some piece of who they are still knows, still remembers the truth, and binds them there." Crowley nodded. Oh, he knew.

Gabriel still couldn't quite handle looking Crowley in the eyes as he spoke those things closest to his nature, so he sat on the sleek couch and continued in a soft voice. "She was the most stoic I've seen, I think. Oh, her hands were trembling, and there was fear in her eyes. But she never argued, never whined. Never once said, 'Oh, why me?' or 'I can't do this.' She just listened while I told her she had been chosen to carry the Son of God. I mean, can you imagine? Her child would bring about changes in Heaven and Hell, and everywhere in between, and she was barely more than a child herself. I know she had her doubts. How could she not? She was virtually alone, in the beginning, from her perspective. Had to convince everyone that she'd seen an angel of the Lord..."

He trailed off gradually, gripped by a sort of nostalgia that could only come from watching the world change and grow for six thousand years. And then, snapped suddenly from his reverie, the angel raised his head. "Was that what you were wondering, or was there something else...?"

As Gabriel told the story, Crowley watched the angel's expressive hands. "I've only seen you in your true form once since the world began," he murmured, thinking of the far distant past and fire and brimstone raining from the Heavens. "It was rather terrifying, to be honest. I don't blame her. Besides, pregnancy back then was frightening enough. Add in His direct gaze, social stigma, an angry bridegroom, and not much of a life for herself or her child, it doesn't promise much other than a free pass to Heaven. I wonder, though, if it was really Free Will. If she really had a choice. He'd know her answer, of course, and why would He send you if He knew she'd say no?" Crowley shook his head. This conversation always got him tied in knots and the wine didn't help. It was the same when he thought about Eve. "I guess I just wondered what you thought of it all. How it made you feel. Were you at the birth? Or ever go see the child whose coming you announced? Does Christmas mean anything special to you, angel?"

"Is it? Well, it certainly isn't my intention to be terrifying. That works for some of the angels, but not usually for me. I think it might just be too much, sometimes, for people to process..." Gabriel took a breath, one that felt truly necessary, and let it out slowly, relaxing as the warmth of the wine began to spread through his chest. "I wasn't at the birth itself, no. Aziraphale was. I don't know if he's told you. Most everyone on our side who could spare the time was there. I was a bit busy that night, as you may imagine. While shepherds watched their flocks by night, and all. But I did check in on her before that, from time to time, and I saw the child on several occasions... remarkable child, really. I mean, of course he was, I don't think he could have been anything less, but... You always knew, even at a young age, that he outranked you. That he was privy to some understanding the rest of us can't even imagine. Hardly more than a glance, and he'd know exactly who you were and why you'd come... a bit like Adam in that respect, really."

Crowley shook his head. "No, I never asked Aziraphale about it. Didn't matter that much, I guess. But I know what you mean about the kid. Adam was the same way. He could do that when he was eleven, sure, but he did it when he was just hours old, too. I don't know how much preparation went on Down Below, but when I had him in my car, there was nothing else in the world."

Gabriel wondered why it was so much easier to discuss the Antichrist than his counterpart, and realized it was because Lucifer's son had made of himself much more neutral subject matter. The Christ child was something he'd always shied away from, and it was rather new territory for them.

"It was a good time for our side," he continued. "Busy, of course. It took as much planning and was as long a time coming as I'm sure Adam was for yours. But the celebration of it now... well, he wasn't even born on this day, was he? It's more a pagan holiday than anything else. Winter solstice. I almost suspect your side's taken it over, sometimes, what with the distressed shoppers breaking out in fights in the aisles, and the emphasis on material possessions."

He paused then to glance up at Crowley, letting him know there was no offense meant. "It's hard sometimes, to watch the meaning of it shift and change, when you were there at the very moment it all began. I mean, to see the trials she suffered after I appeared to her... and she bore it all so admirably, right up to the end. Honestly, I don't know how much of it was her choice anymore than you do. But she had every reason to give up, to crumble under those circumstances, and she didn't. Mortals so often surprise you." The angel let his eyes close, even though he knew Crowley couldn't see what shone in them.

"And you can still find that grace, from time to time, during this season. Even among all the chaos and feuding relatives and fifty-percent off sales. Moments of astounding generosity and selflessness and love. And that makes it special, to see her sacrifices remembered in those acts."

The demon smiled. "Well if it was our holiday to begin with, you could say that your lot corrupted it and we're just reclaiming it... Tell you what, I'll make you a deal. You can have Easter and we'll keep Christmas," he teased lightly.

"I'm not sure I'm in a position to make that kind of deal, actually. In fact, I'm not even sure you're in a position to make that kind of deal," Gabriel laughed, feeling strangely comfortable despite the topic of conversation.

"Perhaps not," Crowley joked back, sitting on the couch next to the archangel. He liked these unguarded moments. Even with their increasing level of intimacy, there was still a barrier there most times that came from them working on opposite sides. But in quiet, playful, wine-enhanced, timeless moments like these, sometimes he was able to forget and live entirely in the present.

And in the present, he was suddenly much too close to Gabriel.

He'd reached for the wine bottle to refill the angel's glass at the same time as said angel leaned forward to place his glass on the table. When Crowley turned back, he ended up a mere inch or so from Gabriel's lips. The demon stopped breathing and the angel went pale. After the briefest eternity, Crowley stood, careful not to brush against the Messenger as he rose.

"I'm, uh, I'm sure I've got an electric wine chiller in here somewhere," he said, nearly bolting for the kitchen. "I'll just be a minute."

"No," Gabriel objected, standing abruptly as well. "No, that's quite all right. I should be getting back, I expect. Lots of work tonight. I'm sure you can imagine..."

Crowley nodded. "Sure. Busy night for your side. Lots of work... Well, stay warm out there, angel."

The archangel gave him an impassive look. "Happy Christmas, Crowley," he said and walked out.

***

Christmas morning dawned clear and cold. Aziraphale tinkered about putting the kettle on and adjusting the position of the angel in his nativity set. Then he stepped outside to get his daily newspaper. Instead of the paper, however, he found a bright poinsettia sitting on the step. He blinked and lifted it up. The attached card read 'Take damn good care of this' in a familiar spiky hand. Well, of course he would. But there was surely no reason that Crowley had to steal his newspaper while he was dropping off plants that he wanted to treat well...


	12. January

Haniel's office didn't look much like Michael's or Raphael's or any other angel's work space. It was dark inside with slanting, dramatic light streaming between the window blinds across his small, littered desk. Metal filing cabinets contained not much more than half a bottle of whiskey and an old pin-up magazine - his virtues didn't keep many paper records. The wooden door with the glass insert that lead into Sariel's studio read 'Haniel' in peeling gold letters. The only concession to his real job was a chaise lounge off to the side, which was good for chatting, or more, should circumstances require it.

Unfortunately, they never had.

The others laughed at Haniel's obsession with the noire lifestyle, but it made him happy and didn't hurt anyone, so they tolerated it as a personal eccentricity. If it then caused them to underestimate him slightly, what with having probably the least understood function in Heaven, well, the Lover never complained...

There was a knock at the door and the handle turned slowly, revealing not a leggy, desperate dame, but the Messenger with a worried expression. "Hey, fella. What's eating you?" asked Haniel, turning from his mechanical typewriter to light a cigarette and wave out the match.

"Dobiel said you'd returned," Gabriel explained, dodging the question for the moment. He felt uncomfortably anxious and needed more time to prepare. But time wouldn't make this any easier. Time wouldn't change the fact that he hadn't followed orders; that he had, in fact, jeopardized the plan entirely and potentially all of Heaven by telling the subject about it. "Have you got a moment? There's something I need to address with you..."

"Always got time for you, kiddo," Haniel replied, clearing a space on his desk by pushing everything to one side and resting his elbows on the clean spot. He eyed Gabriel who almost squirmed under the intense gaze.

"It's not something you... I'm not sure if it's come to your attention, but... What I mean to say is..." He was teetering on the brink, could feel himself hanging over the abyss; it was too late now to pull back, and all that was left was to tumble down. "I feel I should tell you that I refuse to participate in your plan any longer and I've actually... Well, I told Crowley about it."

Haniel stared at him.

"I felt it was the right thing to do," added Gabriel stiffly.

Pushing back his fedora to see the Messenger better, Haniel gazed at him a while longer through mismatched eyes before letting out a low whistle. Without saying a word, he pulled out a blank notecard and scribbled down a few words. "I want you to give this to the scrub," he said finally, folding it in half.

"What? Why?"

"You're the Messenger, ain't you?" exclaimed the Lover. "So messenge."

Gabriel took the note and rose. When Haniel didn't seem any more forthcoming about its contents, he left the office.

Unseen behind him, Haniel smiled.

***

Gabriel found Crowley sitting on the roof of the British Museum. The demon didn't appear to be doing anything in particular; he was just sitting there, catching the last rays of the sun.

The angel landed lightly beside him. "Hello, Crowley." He ruffled his graceful wings, a bit shy perhaps at the vulnerability inherent in having them out; it was a mute sign of trust that he did not immediately fold them away, as he once would have in the demon's presence.

_White_, thought Crowley blankly, remembering his long ago musings on the subject, _and gold_. It had been important to know that once. _Iridescent gold..._ How had he ever forgotten? Never so grateful for his sunglasses before, the demon cleared his throat softly, not trusting his voice. "Hey. What's up?"

"I have a message for you from Haniel." Crowley raised a skeptical eyebrow as Gabriel handed the card over. But the serpent opened it and perused it cautiously before smiling faintly and tucking it in his breast pocket.

Somewhat disappointed that his curiosity apparently wasn't going to be assuaged, Gabriel sat, his feathers catching a bit of the breeze. There was no further reason to stay now that his task was complete, but it was a lovely evening. And while it was true that there was no precedent for an archangel spending time with one of Lucifer's horde, here at Crowley's side, wings outstretched to the warmth of sunlight... it certainly didn't feel wrong.

They sat there for some time in comfortable silence. Eventually Gabriel started to comb idly through his wings with hooked fingers, trying to catch a few stray feathers that had worked themselves loose.

Crowley watched, mesmerized, which meant that only part of his mind was still focused on Haniel's words. The angel's wings were clean, neat, and shining, though that ruffled spot mid-back that was difficult to reach told Crowley that he'd been taking care of them himself for a while. Realizing suddenly that he was aching to touch them, to run his fingers though soft feathers, to bury his nose in the join and catch the elusive scent of _Gabriel_ beneath the mingled odours of Heaven and Earth, Crowley swallowed and offered casually, "Want a hand with that?"

Shifting at the question, Gabriel gave up his own idle efforts to lean back and brace himself comfortably with both hands. "If you don't mind," he added with a smile. He arched his wings forward, leaving the expanse of his back open for the demon.

When the Messenger had been offering his favours the year before, there had been huge boundaries between what a lesser demon was allowed to do to an archangel - barriers to prevent harm - and now Gabriel was proffering his wings like it was the most natural thing in the world. Crowley approached reverently, simply laying gentle, warm hands on the roots of the angel's wings to start.

It was oddly easy for Gabriel to take the demon up on this offer, really. Nostalgic, in a way. He didn't remember much of the angel that Crowley had once been, other than a name, a rank, and a flash of gray eyes, and he didn't think he'd ever been this amiable with the virtue; but it did seem natural to have Crowley's hands on him, to share this intimacy. He rolled his shoulders beneath the touch, appreciative.

"You know," Gabriel began thoughtfully, looking out over the city, "I wonder if Adam truly understands the weight of what he's done. He's more powerful than any of us, I know, but he feels so... _young_."

"Well, he is. We were young once, too. In a way. And we still managed to change our world without understanding a thing." Crowley thought back to the painful innocence before the Fall and began to thread his fingers into the soft wings.

"It's hard to remember ever feeling young," the angel replied with a wry smile. "But I suppose you're right." He was about to add something about understanding all they'd needed to at the time, but remembering Crowley's station just in time, ended there. Perhaps it had seemed to those who had Fallen that the expectations were not so clearly set out; the archangel realized that this was perhaps the first time he'd thought of his lost brethren in empathy. It made him shudder beneath Crowley's gentle touch. "Do you remember?" he asked, trying to change the direction of his thoughts. "Feeling young, I mean."

No, Crowley wouldn't have said that his expectations had been terribly clear, so it was probably best that Gabriel didn't mention it. It didn't matter anyway. Not when he was picking through the softest, most beautiful feathers he'd ever seen, removing loose ones and fluffing and combing the rest. Not when the angel shivered so prettily.

"Oh, yes," he smiled. "I remember." The demon remembered catching a glimpse of a stern superior with dark hair and the bluest eyes imaginable. He remembered reckless games with his friends, feeling cocky and invulnerable. He remembered his function - the thrill of creation, of invention, the wonder when it all came together. He remembered the songs and the light and the love. He remembered everything. Everything except his name.

The angel was silent, sober, for a time as Crowley worked. He'd heard some indescribable happiness in the demon's tone in that moment, and he longed to press further, to understand what one of the Fallen - no, not one of the Fallen, what Crowley - could still remember of the celestial sphere. But despite how close they had become, close enough for Crowley to tend to the archangel's wings freely, that void yet remained between them, and he didn't dare broach it now.

Crowley actually didn't mind talking about Heaven if the angel wished to. It had long ago lost the power to hurt him, like telling someone else's story. Well, most of it. The end wasn't something he liked to dwell on.

"Would you like me to do yours, as well?" Gabriel asked softly, breaking the spell of silence. He could practically feel the difference as Crowley reached the spots on his back he had trouble grooming himself, and really, it was only proper to return the favor.

Startled by the offer, Crowley responded without thinking, "I... yes, I'd like that." And he would, no question. But it would be awkward. Not because he didn't trust Gabriel with the vulnerable limbs. He did. But because they would only serve to emphasize the gulf they straddled. Perhaps that was what they needed, though. Perhaps it was time to stop skirting the issue. Well, in a few more minutes, maybe. Still deep in the Messenger's wings and breathing shallowly, Crowley asked, "Do you? Remember, I mean?"

Gabriel let his head fall thoughtfully to one side. He remembered quite vividly the Fall, compounded soon after by the expulsion of Adam and Eve from Eden. Those memories were among his most painful. But he remembered a time before that as well, when harmonies had filled the celestial sphere and heralded the creation of another plane. He remembered when the hallowed halls of Heaven had been empty but for the records Dobiel and the other authorities had begun for him of each angel's name and their duties during creation. And when he thought long enough, he could remember before that, a time of awareness that was not fully his; when they were one, and then twelve, and then more. "I do," he said quietly. "But we don't have to talk about that if you'd rather not..."

The demon shrugged, invisible from Gabriel's position. As one hand continued to card through the archangel's wings on the sensitive spot where they joined his mid-back, the other reached up to gently massage his exposed neck. There was a pause, then, "Tell me what you remember about me." He'd asked before - in the Millennium Eye - but he wanted to hear it again.

Finally, in voice soft and steeped in nostalgia, the archangel said, "I remember a virtue, dedicated to his work, but who seemed to enjoy it as well. I remember gray eyes, and mottled gray wings. An infectious smile." He faltered, though whether he hesitated for his own sake or for Crowley's, he could not have said. "I remember you and Jeliel and the others. You brought color to Eden with your plants and flowers. It was always a paradise, but you made it a breathtaking one."

The demon didn't smirk or sneer; he smiled. A pale echo of what it had been once, perhaps, but genuine still. "The eyes and wings have changed a little since then," Crowley murmured, lost in his own recollections. He swept his hands softly across Gabriel's great wings for one final smoothing, certain that he could have been lost in those sweet feathers much longer, but not sure where the boundaries were laid yet.

Once he felt Crowley pull away, Gabriel folded his wings, a rather prim stance with both appendages tucked in close around him; however, his expression was soft as he shifted to face the other. "I've seen the eyes," he murmured. "I don't think I've seen your wings..."

Crowley didn't speak; almost shyly, he unfurled his wings. They were a sleek black - a stark, deep colour that no angel had ever had, and only emphasized how far from grace he had Fallen. He said nothing, but kept his eyes on Gabriel's, looking for some kind of reaction.

It was somewhat jarring to find the wings he remembered as soft gray turned to velvet black; however, Gabriel had had centuries of practice in keeping his expression schooled, and managed to keep the surprise from his face. "You take very good care of them," he said quietly. "It hardly seems like you need my help at all." But he nonetheless circled the demon, settling obligingly behind him. He reached out carefully, finding as he ran his fingers through the dark feathers that they were soft despite their stark coloring.

"There's... there's always a few that even I can't reach," Crowley murmured wonderingly. Was it really possible for forgiveness to come so lightly? In the space between one breath and the next? He shuddered involuntarily when Gabriel touched his wings. No one had touched them like that in a very long time...

The truth was, the sight of the stark black wings was a surprise, but no more so, perhaps, than the first time he'd seen the Serpent's bright yellow eyes - a moment which, the archangel realized, had faded in his centuries of recollection until he wasn't sure when or where it had been. Many of the Fallen had looked different after their banishment, and it had been a shock for him to find them, one by one, changed. Crowley's nature, however, was something that was always in the background of the angel's awareness. Black feathers did not change that. The true surprise, perhaps, was that Gabriel could feel so close to one removed from grace. That was where forgiveness had formed. And that had taken more than a few breaths. A full year, in fact, of their awkward dance before Gabriel could see Crowley, not in terms of _what_ he was but in terms of _who_ he was. "Did you... choose this color?" he asked gently, pressing emotional boundaries along with physical as he buried both hands in the demon's wings for the first time. "Or did it just happen?"

"They burned," said Crowley expressionlessly. He understood what Gabriel was doing and tried to be open about a subject he'd never really discussed before, but it was still difficult. "The friction as I... well, they burned." The demon was surprised at how relatively painless even this confession had been, ameliorated as it was by angelic fingers amongst his feathers. Perhaps it was the right time. And the right person. "I can change their form," he went on to explain. "Just not the colour. At least, not for long." Like his eyes.

The idea made the archangel cringe inwardly, but he kept a calm, soothing rhythm to his careful grooming of Crowley's wings. He appreciated the honesty, though he realized after a moment that he had nothing to add to it. Nothing in his experience could parallel Falling from Heaven; it was a loss he couldn't even fathom. "Thank you for trusting me with this, Crowley," he said, after a pause. He didn't specify whether he meant the description or the access to the dark silk feathers. In that moment, the two things were too difficult to separate.

The demon made a noise in the back of his throat that could have been acknowledgment or contentment or both. "And the fucking hilarious thing? I don't even know why," he admitted.

What passed for the archangel's blood ran cold, and he couldn't help pausing in his task at the sudden confession. "What do you mean?" he asked slowly, cautiously.

Worried by the angel's stillness, but certain that honesty was the best path - especially if this _thing_ was ever going to work between them - Crowley soldiered on, his gaze following a bird darting around the London street. It reminded him of a drunken conversation he'd had once with Aziraphale... "I mean I don't know why I Fell," he explained. "It's not like I got a memo or anything; it just happened and I still can't figure out what I did wrong..." The demon's voice trailed off plaintively at the end - childlike - the pain and confusion still remarkably fresh.

A dichotomy of emotions was warring in the angel's mind, and he couldn't find the right words to express either sentiment. An angel didn't simply _Fall_ for no reason. And yet Crowley's simple statements were so genuine; he didn't think the demon was lying to him. Was it really possible for an angel to be unaware of his wrongs? The thought brought up his memories of the Fallen Morningstar: Lucifer, beautiful and broken, who at times didn't even seem to realize he was no longer among the Lord's favored. Crowley did not possess that dangerous self-righteousness. In fact, he seemed vulnerable, open now, as though he were waiting for Gabriel to supply him with the answer. Gabriel did not think that Lucifer ever came so near to regret. "Crowley, I... I'm sorry." Sorry, perhaps, that he hadn't a clue what answer to give.

The demon shrugged - an impressive gesture with four limbs - hoping the movement would entice those warm hands to his wings once more. "It's probably for the best. I would have been a lousy angel." A small smile touched Crowley's lips as he stared into the dying sunlight. He'd long since given up on trying to find out why he'd been rejected and shoved the bitter guilt to the back of his mind. It turned out to be much easier to be bad when one had already been punished for it.

"Don't say that," the angel murmured, his voice low, urgent. He leaned forward until his forehead came to rest lightly against the back of Crowley's head, nestled in his dark hair; the demon's scent filled his awareness. Between shuddering breaths, he brought his hands up to the soft black wings. A few stray black feathers fell away as he continued his task. "Just... please. Don't say that."

Crowley inhaled sharply, surprised as much by Gabriel's tone as his actions: surprised, too, at the force of his own feelings, both good and bad. It left him light-headed and heavy-hearted. "As you wish," he replied softly, knowing the archangel wouldn't understand the reference. It was just as well.

Gabriel moved in silence; Crowley's wings were already fairly well groomed, and it took little time for the angel to find the loose feathers in those hard to reach places around his shoulder blades. He smoothed the remaining feathers gently back into place. "I don't want you to have to hurt like this," he murmured, eyes closed.

"I don't... You can't..." Crowley sighed, frustrated that when he most needed them, the words wouldn't come. Annoyed, too, at himself - at the part of him that wanted to retain his dignity in front of an archangel and at the warring part that wanted nothing more to cling desperately to what Gabriel offered. "It's been a long damn time; I'm a big boy now." Maybe if he said it out loud, it would be true.

"It has been a long time," the angel agreed quietly. Gabriel couldn't really comprehend that it was a pain one could learn to live with; to him, Falling from grace was the worst conceivable consequence of any situation. He did understand, however, that it likely benefited neither of them to discuss the prospect in too much depth, and he decided to change the subject. "So, what was in that message from Haniel?"

Crowley rolled his shoulders, letting his wings fall into their natural position before shifting so that he was sitting next to Gabriel once more. He handed back the note, a smile playing at the edges of his lips.

Curious, Gabriel opened it. It merely said,

_Kiss him already, you idiot._

_-Haniel _

_PS- Gabe, sweetheart, let him._

Eyes wide in surprise, Gabriel looked up to find that the small smile had broken into a grin. "What do you say, angel?" asked Crowley.

Images from a nearly intangible past brought a tenseness to the Messenger's abdomen, and a sudden, silly urge assaulted him. He reached out, cautious, hesitant, but Crowley did not shy away; carefully, his fingers brushing across the other's cheek, he caught the frames of Crowley's sunglasses and pulled them away, revealing the oddly pretty, serpentine eyes. He flushed with his foolishness, but didn't look away. His eyes looked different than they once had, but they hadn't changed.

"I... yes?"

The space of a heartbeat, a breath, an unspoken thought was all that remained between them, and then even that disappeared as their lips met in a single, searching kiss that made Gabriel gasp with the softness of it.

After a slow, sensuous moment, Crowley broke the achingly gentle kiss, but didn't pull away. Instead he raised his eyes to Gabriel's, wonderingly, until another shared impulse brought their mouths together again. Bringing up his free hand, he caressed the angel's cheek as his tongue begged sweetly for entrance. Gabriel smelled intoxicatingly of rain, sun, fresh air, and oddly enough, night-blooming jasmine, and Crowley couldn't resist reaching farther up to wind his fingers into the soft, dark hair.

Dizzying, the angel thought, was the only thing that could describe the intensity of Crowley's eyes when their lips hovered so achingly close; it left him dazed, and his thoughts blurred into one arresting spiral that culminated in his lips parting unquestioningly at Crowley's urging. Dizzying, and he held on fiercely as his heart beat faster, and faster still, one hand on the curve of the demon's neck as the other caught Crowley's hip, pulling it flush with his own. Shifting, searching, and the insinuation of one knee between Crowley's thighs, and in a tangle of limbs, the other's weight was upon him. But even with the demon pressed against him, Gabriel felt fleeting, ephemeral, an insubstantial flurry of want and warmth that was made real only where his lips met Crowley's.

Precariously balanced on the angel's lap, Crowley pressed closer, wanting nothing more than to bask in the angel's warmth and see Gabriel's pale, smooth skin softly contrasting his own slightly darker hue. He knew without seeing that they were beautiful together. They could have been a sculpture by Rodin, all cool, smooth lines, firm muscles, and flawless faces. They were porcelain, alabaster, marble. But they were also alive, vibrant, flowing, moving, merging. As his hand trailed down Gabriel's neck and his eyes fell closed, Crowley wondered if moments like these were the entire point of creation.

What warmth could be found in the demon's touch filled him, a wanton heat that coursed through his veins and left him flushed with seeking it in the body pressed against his. Gabriel craved it, some sudden, driving addiction, and the feel of Crowley beneath his hands was intoxicating, thrilling, breathless -

"Finally," came an outside voice, and they jumped apart at the suddenness of it.

"Oh, don't mind me, kiddos. Strange place for a petting party, but it's your ball game," said Haniel, amused. "Took you so long, I don't care where you do it."

"What?" said Gabriel, still dazed.

Haniel laughed. "I know your brain might not be working too good right now, boyo, but I'm talking about the plan."

"But I didn't..."

"Oh, yes, you did. The _other_ plan."

There was a moment of confused silence before Crowley smacked his forehead; he'd been here before... "You sick bastard. This was all a set-up! This is the damn difference between the Great Plan and the Ineffable Plan again, isn't it?"

The Lover smiled; Gabriel looked utterly lost.

Crowley tried to explain. "This whole time - whatever he told you, what he told me, the other angels who were involved...?"

"Had to find out who you clicked with," Haniel shrugged. "Love is more than appreciating a nice chassis."

"_Fuck_," replied Crowley feelingly. "All of it. He engineered it all just to get us together."

Struggling to find his voice, Gabriel said, "But... why?"

Haniel adjusted the angle of his fedora. "Archangel of Passionate Love. It's my job, sweetheart." He began rummaging through his pockets. "Oh, before I forget, Raph wanted to make sure I gave you these." He tossed a package of suspiciously shaped somethings at Gabriel who went crimson with embarrassment.

Crowley wasn't in much better shape. "Condoms?" he squeaked.

"Doc says 'be safe'," Haniel grinned. "All right, I'll get out of your hair now. Don't worry about me walking in on you in the clinch, either. I wouldn't do that to a pal. No promises about Sariel, though. He's been going on forever about how pretty you two are." The Lover cheerfully rolled his eyes and vanished.

The Messenger and the Serpent gazed at each other in the stunned silence that followed. Then they both spoke at once.

"I'd understand if..."

"I don't..."

They stopped.

Gabriel took the demon's hand and spoke earnestly. "Crowley, it doesn't matter to me how or why this all started, as long as it can continue. I want to be with you."

"Oh, thank fuck!" Crowley managed to exclaim as he pounced.

Sariel was right. They were beautiful together.

THE END


End file.
